


Buckaroo Banzai and the Thugs Down Under

by Ebony (The_Fenspace_Collective)



Category: Fenspace, The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across The 8th Dimension (1984)
Genre: Fenspace - Freeform, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-30
Updated: 2007-05-30
Packaged: 2018-01-01 00:14:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1038053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Fenspace_Collective/pseuds/Ebony





	Buckaroo Banzai and the Thugs Down Under

The Institute goes where it needs to be, and often fills in roles of disaster relief and evacuation, as well as prevention. Given the Global Frequency, there are Blazers in almost every region of Fenspace and Mundane, ready to react on the signal of an AI that has taps into or links with almost every media existent media source. If you are a Blazer, and there's a situation, you can call Buckaroo, and the Institute will mobilize appropriate forces. Sometimes it comes as cleanup, and sometimes...

 

* * *

 

"I really wouldn't do that if I were you." I say, stepping out of the shadows, the red dot of a laser sight tagging the Reaver's center of mass. "It might make me cross."

The Reaver is relatively normal in appearance, with only a collection of piercings and a few scars to indicate he isn't actually an Alice Springs Water Department employee, despite his distinctive jumpsuit, hard hat, and ID badge. Even that might be appropriate, given his age. But the look in his eyes, that look of someone that's not quite all there, belies his nature. "Took you long enough," he comments, as if I were the pizza delivery man.

I shrug. "Six bombs, with accompanying bombers," I add, informing him of his team's failure. "You've left the Alice Springs police with a lot of paperwork."

"You won't kill me. You don't kill." He turns away from me and reaches for his package. There's a motion, and J. is there, moving with a stealth and speed that is uncanny for a man his size. Before he can do more than fist the Reaver's clothing, the bomber has snatched up his detonator and flipped it active. He catches J. across the jaw with the improvised fistload of the deadman switch, knocking him to the ground. "Stay back!" he shouts at me, halting my advance by thrusting the switch at me like a pistol, as if he could kill me directly with it. "You know what this is! No one touches me until the bomb goes off!"

"Shouldn't that be 'or the bomb goes off'," says Nezumi as she appears at the other end of the room, next to the emergency exit. Her pistols, the twin Schofields that she got from Governor Clarke, are free and steady. She could shoot out his eyes from that angle, but the switch would open. And of all of us, she knows what a batch of 'Wavium released into the water main would do.

"Where's Chaos?" I ask, holstering my Glock and keeping my eyes on the Reaver. Both exits are blocked, and it's merely a matter of time before he does something really drastic.

"Dealing with the other bombs. He had to get Tommy Eight-Fingers on the phone for some of the work."

I nod. The Reaver's looking more and more like a frightened dog, ready to bite anyone that even looks like he's going to move. The throwing spike drops into my hand, but that's a good second for him to react, and he's still got the switch. "J.?"

"Yeah, I'm here." J. pulls himself to his hands and knees at the feet of the Reaver.

"Don't move, fucker! I will set this thing off if you even breathe wrong!"

Too many movies. Well, scratch that, because there's no such thing. Too many movies of the wrong kind. "J.?"

"Yeah?"

"Boom."

Given that J. stands 6'1" and weighs upward of 280 lbs., few people believe that he can move as fast as he can from a standing start. Or that he can kick as high as he does. The front snap kick is a steel-toed blur that connects maybe a quarter-second after his hand closes around the loosening grip of the Reaver, jamming the fist tight around the switch. Unfortunately, the Reaver takes the force of the kick full in the jaw and unsuccessfully tries to follow the line of force imparted. Unsuccessfully, because he is anchored by J.'s aforementioned grip on his hand. The crack of bones breaking echoes through the room, and the Reaver goes limp, his neck at an unpleasant angle.

"Shit." J. lays the body down and checks the pulse. "Shit!" he says again.

I couldn't agree more, but now's not the time. There's still a bomb. "Bomb now. Trauma later." I've got the phone open and active before I finish the sentence. Time to see if Tommy Eight-Fingers can conference.

 

* * *

 

...Sometimes they end up in the Alice Springs police station, dealing with paperwork and a case of self-defense.


End file.
